


when tomorrow comes (will i be the one to hold your pretty hand)

by Yevynaea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agender Character, Asexual Relationship, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluff without Plot, Friendship/Love, Gender Identity, Gender Is Fake, Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Multi, One Shot, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Pining, Queer Themes, Time Skips, i'm soft and so are these lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 11:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20241874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: “Maybe after we’re both done here, we can go East for a bit,” the demon suggests. “They’ve got a new vegetable over there, some kind of purple… melon… thing. Y’know, I’m not really sure what it’s meant to be.”Aziraphale tries to resist. He really tries. But there’s a whole new vegetable that he hasn’t eaten yet, and Crowley is giving him that little smile she gets when she’s tempting him with something. That little smile Aziraphale can never seem to say no to.“We can’t go together, of course,” he warns.“‘Course not,” Crowley says with that same smile, clearly pleased that she’s gotten him to agree so easily.(or: a study of gender identity in occult/ethereal person-shaped beings, explored through four moments of yearning.)





	when tomorrow comes (will i be the one to hold your pretty hand)

**Author's Note:**

> me? projecting strongly onto my favorite characters again? it's more likely than you think.  
Title is from [When Tomorrow Comes, by Mezzo Mestizo](https://open.spotify.com/track/2w66v5v9DsUUXH7oHqCKaw?si=TjLBQV6ZSpyy7v8X1FMTJA), currently misfiled on spotify because they're absurdly incompetent at maintaining their online presence(s).

Gender is, as a general rule, not a large concern of many angels or demons; the main reason for this being that Shape and Form are extremely subjective concepts for the lot of them.

Aziraphale has never wanted much to do with any genders, simply electing to present the way people see his human corporation out of simplicity, rather than put any effort into changing anything. Sometimes, he’ll muster the effort to give a different look a try, but this is always more of a Conscious Decision regarding presentation, not a change in Internal Feelings as it tends to be for Crowley. Or, at least, if it is a Feeling, it’s a much shallower and more relaxed and casual kind of Feeling.

Crowley, by contrast, is a collector of genders, so to speak. Which means they find themself waking up on occasion and finding that they suddenly feel Very Masculine, or Very Feminine, or A Bit of Both, or None of The Above, and they adjust their presentation accordingly. Where Aziraphale generally cares very little for what gender he’s perceived as-- having little gender to speak of anyway-- Crowley puts careful effort into being perceived how they feel.

This is all a rather long-winded way of saying that, on a gloomy Wednesday morning in Ireland, 545 AD, when Crowley appears at his shoulder, Aziraphale takes note of the demon’s braided hair, and how their cloak-pin is secured over their breast rather than their shoulder, and he quickly adjusts the question he’d been about to ask.

“What are you doing here, my dear girl?”

“Causing trouble, angel, what else?” Crowley asks, leaning forward to get a closer look at the Cross of the Scriptures.

“I do hope you’re not here for Ciarán,” Aziraphale says, frowning. Crowley shakes her head.

“‘M just meant to tempt a few of his friends,” she says with a casual shrug. “Found any good food around here?”

Aziraphale’s puzzled for a moment-- Crowley’s never really liked to eat, never sought out food the way Aziraphale does-- then it clicks that Crowley isn’t asking for herself, and he allows himself a soft smile.

“I’m afraid not,” he replies. “It’s mostly dense breads and milk at the moment.”

“Maybe after we’re both done here, we can go East for a bit,” the demon suggests. “They’ve got a new vegetable over there, some kind of purple… melon… thing. Y’know, I’m not really sure what it’s meant to be.”

Aziraphale tries to resist. He really tries. But there’s a  _ whole new vegetable _ that he hasn’t eaten yet, and Crowley is giving him that little smile she gets when she’s tempting him with something. That little smile Aziraphale can never seem to say no to.

“We can’t go together, of course,” he warns.

“‘Course not,” Crowley says with that same smile, clearly pleased that she’s gotten him to agree so easily. “Wouldn’t want to attract attention. We’ll go separately.”

Aziraphale bites back a sigh, unease roiling through him in waves.

_ We’re not friends,  _ he reminds himself sternly, the words ringing painfully untrue even in his own head.  _ We’re acquaintances, at best. Nothing wrong with enemies who just happen to run into each other sometimes. And there’s nothing else going on between us at all. _

He doesn’t let himself think about why that thought feels so…  _ heavy _ , settling like a stone between his ribs.

🙾 ♕ 🙾 ♛ 🙾

They’re both surprised to see each other in the parade, that first year. There are no big floats of corporate banners or huge crowds-- it’s too early for that, and people are too afraid. There’s less than a thousand people, marching through London with signs and chants and too many police officers breathing down their backs, many just waiting for the slightest provocation.

“Why are you here?” they both ask each other at once, wary and fearful but willing to hope--

“It’s a parade celebrating a deadly sin, angel,” Crowley says, grinning with a smooth confidence he doesn’t actually feel. He’s caught a little off-footed by Aziraphale being here. “Where else would I be?”

“It is  _ not  _ celebrating anything of the sort--” Aziraphale starts to protest, defensive.

“Yesss, well,  _ I  _ know that,” Crowley hurriedly interrupts, “but Below doesn’t, so keep your voice down.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale relaxes, at that, apparently satisfied that Crowley isn’t about to cause trouble for the parade-goers. He smiles, lifting his _ ‘Out of the Closet, Into the Streets!’  _ sign a little higher to avoid hitting a young person in the head with it as they bustle past him.

“Nice sign,” Crowley says, properly noticing it for the first time. (He makes a mental note to ask the angel, properly, about labels and identity and other such things, at a later date.)

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies. “Would you like to come back to the shop, after this? I’ve been roped into hosting a dinner, of sorts.”

“Don’t see why not,” Crowley replies, attempting to be casual. He’s always attempting to be casual, nowadays, ‘ _ you go too fast for me’  _ echoing in his ears every time he so much as thinks of the angel. Aziraphale smiles again, that little smile he gets when he’s completely pleased and untroubled. That little smile Crowley can never seem to make stay. “I didn’t realize you’d adopted anyone lately.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Aziraphale says, not exactly a protest. “…And it’s really more like they’ve adopted me.”

♕ 🙾 ♛

“So how’d you meet Auntie Ezra?” Emelie asks, lounging on the sofa with a glass of scotch, her feet in Athene’s lap.

“We’ve known each other… ages,” Anthony slurs, halfway through a bottle of Madeira wine, and showing no signs of slowing down any time soon. “Feels like f’rever, sometimes.”

“You his boy, then?” Bea pipes up from the armchair in the corner, sipping cocoa instead of alcohol. Emelie thinks she may be onto something, there.

“God-- Sa--  _ Someone _ ,” Anthony sighs, “I’d like to be. But it can’t happen.”

“Why not?” Emelie demands.

“His-- we-- our--” Anthony stops, and gives the wine bottle in his hand a long look, as if only just realizing how much of it he’s had. He seems to be thinking over how to reply. “Our families would find out; prob’ly bash us both for it.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Athene says, her first contribution in half an hour.

“Hear hear,” Emelie agrees, and everyone raises their fists or their glasses in agreement, even Matthew, who’s been laying on the ground for a while. Emelie wasn’t aware he was still awake.

“What are we toasting, my dear?” asks Auntie Ezra, shuffling into the room with a tray of mugs and biscuits enough for everyone.

“R’volting ‘gainst the establishment,” Anthony answers.

“I see,” Ezra makes a face like he’s trying not to smile, and hands Anthony a mug of cocoa, neatly trading him the wine bottle.

“Thanks for having us, Auntie,” Matthew says, still on the floor.

“Of course, dear boy,” Ezra says. Then he pauses, and Emelie watches as he looks right at Anthony, who’s too busy rummaging in the biscuit tin to notice. “You know my door is always open.”

🙾 ♕ 🙾 ♛ 🙾

Warlock Dowling, five-year-old would-be-Antichrist, has been working on the same model plane for nearly an hour, with a patience beyond his years. His nanny has been knitting that whole time, softly humming to herself as snow falls continuously outside. It’s very nice and peaceful, which is probably why Warlock scowls when hurried footsteps come to interrupt it. Crowley puts her knitting down, pushing her glasses up on her nose before looking to the door.

“Ms. Ashtoreth, you have a visitor,” says one of the maids, hovering awkwardly in the doorway of the parlor. Crowley doesn’t remember the girl’s name; Eloise, perhaps, or Imogen-- something feminine and only slightly old-fashioned. “I wasn’t sure whether to let her in. She’s waiting in the mudroom, off the kitchen.”

Crowley frowns, unsure who would be asking after her here, and not exactly eager to find out. Still, she stands, smoothing down her skirt and blouse.

“Stay here with the wean a moment, would you?” she asks the maid, who nods, sitting down next to Warlock.

♕ 🙾 ♛

There’s a strange woman in the mudroom off the kitchen.

“Uh,” says Lyle Scrivens, the cook, who’s just opened the door to see if he left his phone in his coat pocket (again), and come face to face with said strange woman. She’s about Lyle’s same age, but shorter and softer. She’s dressed in an old-fashioned suit, complete with a prim skirt and fitted waistcoat. She’s also wearing a warm tartan scarf, and her pale blonde hair is pulled back into an elegant crown braid, though a few stray curls have come loose here and there.

“Hello, Mr. Scrivens,” she says politely, before he has a chance to introduce himself. “I’m waiting for Ms. Ashtoreth.”

“Uh,” says Lyle again, confused, then immensely glad when he then feels a hand on his shoulder and looks to find Ms. Ashtoreth herself standing there, ready to take his place in the doorway. He moves immediately, forgetting about his phone and returning to the batch of fruit tarts he’s in the middle of baking.

“Angel,” Ashtoreth says, one hand holding the edge of the door primed to slam in the other woman’s face. Her tone manages to be both fond and scathing, simultaneously.

“Hello, my dear,” ‘Angel’ says warmly. Lyle keeps spooning peach preserves into each tart, pretending not to be able to hear them across the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” Ashtoreth asks.

“I’ve got another two full weeks off,” Angel replies. “Not much to do when everything’s covered in snow, you know.”

“I know that. You told me you were going to make sure the shop was all in order. So why are you  _ here _ ?”

Angel mutters something that Lyle can’t make out, and he glances over to see Ashtoreth grinning like the cat that got the canary, while the other woman turns a flustered shade of pink.

“Sorry, what was that?” Ms. Ashtoreth asks, clearly just asking to be difficult.

“I got bored being home without you!” Angel says again, louder this time, almost pouting at being made to repeat herself. “I’ve gotten quite used to your company in recent years, you know.”

“I see,” Ms. Ashtoreth says, still smug as anything. “Well, provided Mrs. Dowling doesn’t mind, I’m sure you can spend today with me and the boy.”

Angel lights up, already stepping out of her sensible boots, and hanging up her scarf and coat.

“Thank you, my dear,” she says brightly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ashtoreth mutters, finally stepping aside to let Angel inside properly. “I’ll find the mistress.”

The two of them leave, Angel following happily just a half-step behind Ms. Ashtoreth. Lyle makes a mental note to tell the rest of the staff about this as soon as possible; Imogen’s theory about Ashtoreth and the gardener couldn’t be further from the truth, it seems.

♕ 🙾 ♛

“Haven’t seen you like this for a while,” Crowley says in a low voice, a bit later, settling back down with her knitting while Aziraphale produces a book from thin air.

“Yes, well,” the angel replies, equally as quiet so that Warlock won’t hear her. “I figured the further my appearance could get from Brother Francis, the better. Wouldn’t want to be recognized by anyone.”

“‘Course not.” Crowley smiles, then hesitates. “Actually, when  _ was  _ the last time I saw you like this?”

Aziraphale takes a long moment to think about it.

“891, I believe,” she says finally. “I spent a few years like this in the 1840s, as well, but you were still asleep then.”

“Hm,” Crowley acknowledges, frowning slightly. “A few  _ years?  _ That long?”

Aziraphale only shrugs, wiggling a little helplessly, unable or unwilling to explain herself. Crowley smiles again, letting it drop. “It’s nice, you know.”

“What is, dear?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley can’t tell, for the life of her, whether the angel’s being obtuse on purpose.

“Thisss,” she replies, gesturing vaguely toward Aziraphale. “You. This look. It’sss nice.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiles, pleased and lovely, and Crowley looks hurriedly down at her knitting, hoping Aziraphale won’t see that she’s blushing. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley only hums, Very Determinedly Focusing on the scarf-to-be in her hands.

♕ 🙾 ♛

Warlock likes Nanny’s friend. Miss Fell has been coming by for a week now, and every day after the first one, she’s brought him candies-- though, directly contradicting Nanny’s “dessert first” policy, she’s very insistent that he wait to eat them until after dinner. She mostly spends the days reading, and seems unsure what to do when Warlock tries to talk to her, but she’s always kind.

“When’s Brother Francis coming back?” Warlock asks Nanny one night, as she’s tucking him into bed. “Miss Fell should meet him! I think they’d like each other.”

“Oh?” Nanny seems amused by this. “Why do you think so?”

“They’re both nice,” Warlock says, furrowing his brow at the inherent inadequacies of the English language (though, being five years old, he wouldn’t word it quite like that). “Warm,” he corrects himself, putting a hand on his chest, just a little to the side of where his heart is. “Like you.”

Nanny raises one eyebrow, looking a little surprised behind her sunglasses.

“Me?” she asks, smiling. “Surely not. I’m very cold. All scales and sharp edges, me.”

Warlock almost argues, but he already knows from experience that winning an argument with Nanny Ashtoreth is difficult. She always manages to circle it back around until you’ve switched sides, somehow.

“Well, maybe Brother Francis and Miss Fell like the cold,” he says instead, grabbing Nanny’s hand between his smaller ones. “ _ I  _ like it.”

“...Thank you, dearie,” Nanny says quietly, before shaking herself a little, and pulling her hand back. “Now, time for bed. Sweet dreams; crush all your enemies.”

“I will,” Warlock promises, nestling comfortably under the blankets.

🙾 ♕ 🙾 ♛ 🙾

It’s the last weekend of summer, with school and cold weather both lurking just around the corner, when the Them decide to throw a summer picnic. They invite Anathema and Newt, who promise to bring a fruit salad, and they invite Mr. Crowley and Mr. Aziraphale, who promise to bring drinks, whereupon Anathema is hasty to remind them to bring something non-alcoholic for the children. Adam’s mum makes little sandwiches, and the rest of the Them bring snacks and crisps and candies, and they lay out blankets in the grass and play with Dog while they wait for their guests to arrive.

“Is that Mr. Aziraphale?” Wensleydale asks, looking up the hill to where Mr. Crowley is helping a sort-of-familiar woman in a white blouse and a long tartan skirt out of his car.

“I thought he was a man,” says Brian.

“He’s an  _ angel _ . Gender’s probably just like, an outfit for them,” Pepper replies, more correct than she knows.

“‘Sides, not everyone’s a man or a woman all the time, anyway,” Adam says.

“Really?” Wensley asks, a little skeptical.

“Sure,” Adam replies. “Anathema says it’s very complicated.”

“My mum says that too,” Pepper agrees.

♕ 🙾 ♛

“The children are staring,” Aziraphale notes, with some amusement, as Crowley helps her collect their picnic supplies from the back seat of the Bentley. “They look confused. Perhaps I should’ve put in the effort to switch back and come as my usual self.”

“Nonsense,” Crowley says, pushing his sunglasses up on his nose, and folding the picnic blanket over his arm. “They stopped Armeggedon, they can handle a little confusion. You’re allowed to be yourself, angel. Fully, entirely, completely.”

“Wilde, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, smiling as she links her arm with his.

“Shut up,” Crowley mutters, trying to pretend he isn’t blushing.

“Mr. Crowley!” the Them all start calling suddenly, waving at them from the bottom of the hill. “Ms. Aziraphale!”

“See?” Crowley says, gesturing toward the children. “Perfectly fine.”

♕ 🙾 ♛

“D’you think they’re married?” Brian asks, watching the angel and demon wander down the hill arm-in-arm.

“They don’t wear rings, though,” Wensleydale points out.

“Maybe they’re  _ going  _ to get married, then,” Adam proposes. “Like Anathema and Newt.”

The Them all take a moment to ponder this possibility, during which Mr. Crowley nearly trips down the hill, and Ms. Aziraphale hides a laugh behind her hand, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“Definitely,” Pepper decides.


End file.
